Unsavory Ways
by Veneno Dolce
Summary: Snake and a few others take definitive action to bring the stock market toppling to its knees. What is their motivation? Modern AU. Implied yaoi. Please R&R.
1. Outside The Exchange

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.  
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Note: This is an AU. Although the characters are the same, it is entirely removed from the events of MGS2.  
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UNSAVORY WAYS  
  
Snake glanced at his watch, tapping his foot rhythmically on the granite steps of the New York Stock Exchange. A gray haze of people passed by him every moment, veiled by the smog and the smoke and the rain. Steam bubbled rebelliously from the dark confines of the sewers, carried the musky stench of urine.  
Here she was, finally. A small figure huddled in a black coat, a wilting rose in the lapel for identification. "Took you long enough," he admonished, holding out his watch. "Am I late?" she asked. She took a look at his outstretched wrist. "Shit, I am so late. I was beating off in the tub, and next thing I know I'm rushing out the door. It takes me so goddamned long to come!"  
Snake's mouth fell open. He looked at her, searching for some affirmation that she was joking, but she was already distracted, rooting around in her bag. He regained his composure. "Did you bring it?" he asked guardedly. "Of course," she replied, "do you think I'm some kind of retard?"  
She found what she'd been looking for and handed it to him. A small tin box with a simple lock and latch. "Key?" he requested.  
She reached up and removed the rose from her lapel. Instead of a long green fiber, the flower's stem was a jagged sliver of metal. He put it in his pocket.  
She smiled wanly. "Good luck, Snake."  
He smiled back, fully realizing that he'd never see her again. "Take care, Emma."  
She melted into the crowd, drenched with rain. Just like her to forget an umbrella. He took one last look, then picked up his gym bag and the box and walked through the massive oak doors of the center of the universe. 


	2. Inside the Exchange

Through the doors was the entrance hall. Everything was stern and foreboding. White cement walls, curling staircases. Gleaming mahogany. Facing Snake was a massive marble desk, behind which sat an armed guard who served as the receptionist. There was a door on either side next to the desk. These doors led to the exchange auditorium. Snake thought of the hundreds of frantic traders behind the door, the frenetic energy, the sweat and the rapid pulses. Despite the expensive suit he was wearing, he suddenly felt naked. As he approached the desk, the guard held out a clipboard covered in a thousand hieroglyphs. "Name, group, signature," he requested. Snake found himself attracted to this dark young man. He wrestled down his primal urges in light of the mission that lay ahead of him. He took the clipboard. "Samuel Reiper, Columbus Trading Group" he wrote. He forged the signature perfectly and handed the clipboard back to the guard. When he took the clipboard from Snake, their hands briefly touched, and sparks went flying up Snake's arm. "Mr. Reiper?" The guard checked some records. "You're an hour later than usual. The exchange is already in full swing." That's because the real Mr. Reiper is tied up and unconscious in his closet, Snake thought. He didn't say anything. Just stared at the guard, soaked up his handsome features. God I'd love to fuck him. Stayed silent. "All right, go on in." Snake stepped through the door and found himself in frenzied Hell. 


	3. On the Floor

The first thing that struck Snake was the heat. A thousand bodies, hearts pounding, screaming commands, each at 98.6 degrees Farenheit, produced enough energy to light the city of New York. And it felt like they could heat it, too. Most of the traders had their jackets off. Some were even down to their undershirts. Snake stared at these men longingly, sensing a hardening bulk between his legs. Most traders were young and fit; they had to be to survive the intensity of their daily environment. Few were women.  
High above the carpeted floor on which people scurried like ants, mouths open, waving slips of paper, were two galleries. One, on the right wall, was the Member's Gallery. This was where high-ranking members, their guests, and the press could view the clockwork heart that kept financial America ticking. Across from it was the mysterious Executive Gallery. Its frosted glass windows afforded it completely privacy as well as a perfect panoramic view of the floor. At any given time, several high-ranking executives of the NYSE, as well as its president or vice-president, could be found in that room, coolly assimilating and mediating the proceedings below them. The president and vice-president were never in it at the same time. Nobody could enter it without a key card and an access code. Snake had both.  
His stomach clenched. Heart accelerated. Breathing labored. He climbed the steps on trembling legs. This was the most monumental thing he had ever done. He slid the electronic key through the console and entered the access code. The mechanism identified him as Joseph Kramer, the vice president of the New York Stock Exchange. His hand rested momentarily on the door's handle. He pulled it down and entered the room that was concealed by frosted glass. 


	4. Through the Frosted Glass

This room was much cooler than the trading floor, a luxury reserved for the 9 or 10 people gathered here. They looked up from their computer terminals and cups of coffee when Snake entered. A man in a gray suit asked, "Who the hell are you?"  
Snake closed the door behind him, reached into his gym bag, and withdrew an MP5 submachine gun.  
The screams from the Executive's Gallery were drowned in the cacophony from the floor.  
"Nobody move," he growled. "Everybody, hands behind your heads, face down on the floor. NOW!"  
They did as he ordered. One young woman, who had until this point been enjoying every perquisite of her successful life, vomited and had no choice but to lay in it. A black man in a striped shirt whimpered and pissed himself. They all went down.  
Snake glanced around until he found the man he was looking for. Even though he was laying down, the head of silvery hair was unmistakable. He stepped over his terrified hostages, grasped the man by the back of his collar, and heaved him to his feet. "And you must be the president of the New York Stock Exchange," Snake insisted, "A pleasure to meet you."  
The man breathed fast and kept his eyes closed. Snake wrenched him over to a door across from the entrance. On either side were entry consoles. These did not require key cards; only access codes. Snake pushed the president against one of the consoles, put the gun's cool barrel against the back of the man's neck.  
"Open it," he ordered.  
"I can't," the man countered, "I only have one of the codes. The vice president has the other one."  
Snake smirked, pulled a chain out of his pocket. Attached to the chain was a laminated card. The card had seven seven-digit codes printed on it. One of them was correct. "Not anymore," he said. He'd extracted the code-card from a whimpering vice president in his apartment earlier that morning. The president's eyes widened. Snake went to the other console.  
"Enter your code," he commanded.  
"No," the president protested. Snake fired some shots into the ceiling. Plaster fell like snow. The hostages squealed. Although the gun was silenced, it produced the desired affect. The president reached into his shirt, removed a chain and card identical to Snake's. Fumbled with it, finally grasped the card in trembling fingers.  
"Now," Snake said.  
The president obliged. He and Snake entered their codes simultaneously. The door slid open silently. Before entering, Snake took a brown box with a blinking light out of the gym bag and propped it against the wall.  
"This is a bomb wired to a motion detector," he told the prostrate hostages, "If any of you moves more than two inches, all of you will die." The stillness became so complete that the room could have been full of corpses. In reality, the bomb was just two boxes of juice and a Christmas light, but they didn't need to know that. He glanced at the president, who was still standing, at smiled. He stepped through the door. 


End file.
